


See Through Me, I'm Paper Thin

by Jaune



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:58:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune/pseuds/Jaune
Summary: Foggy knows Matt could get free in a moment if he wanted to.Matt knows that Foggy knows.And yet, from the moment that Matt had ceded the reins to Foggy, lain supplicant on their bed and offered his wrists for Foggy to tie, Foggy had taken control of Matt entirely.





	See Through Me, I'm Paper Thin

**Author's Note:**

> It's worth saying that this isn't really what I'd consider traditional play. There's no negotiation, no safewords, no actual mention of any D/s terms, but I think the themes are present. I hope you like it.

The blindfold may be redundant, but Foggy likes it. It's all part of this picture, part of the scene.

Matt arches up beneath Foggy. Each of the corded muscles of his chest and torso stand out in stark relief as he pulls at his restraints. It hasn't been long since Foggy had found a new use for the cloth of Matt's old mask; he had looped the black fabric around Matt's wrists—cinched it tight, and nestled Matt's clenched fists in the small of his back—only minutes ago... probably less than ten. 

Matt normally keeps track of time a little better than this, generally is able to focus enough to avoid vagaries, but his head is fuzzy now, a hot buzz singing along his senses as Foggy's warm fingers trace along Matt's forearms, then Matt's chest, his cool breath buffeting against the tiny hairs of Matt's sweaty nape, and Matt can't pull free of him. Wouldn't, even if he could. That's not the game they're playing right now.

Though, it doesn't feel like a game. The way Matt's adrenaline surges through him, it feels serious. It feels life-altering.

Matt bucks again and his teeth flash in the dim light. Foggy is entranced by the grit of Matt's teeth and the glisten of sweat on Matt's face but not enough for Matt to unseat Foggy from where he's straddling Matt's waist. When Foggy plants a firm hand in the center of Matt's chest, not pushing Matt in one direction or another but unmoving and unyielding and unable to be ignored all the same, Matt ceases the tumultuous roll of his shoulders and pulls at the bindings on his wrist instead.

Foggy knows Matt could get free in a moment if he wanted to. Matt knows that Foggy knows. And yet, from the moment that Matt had ceded the reins to Foggy, lain supplicant on their bed and offered his wrists for Foggy to tie, Foggy had taken control of Matt entirely. He's taken Matt's strength and weaknesses, his successes and failures, his preferences and desires and tucked them securely away until Matt can handle them again.

It is all Foggy's now. 

It's all Foggy, now. 

Matt doesn't need to have a thought in his head beyond what Foggy's doing and how it's making Matt feel.

The sinews of Matt's neck and collarbone pull taut under his skin through his efforts against his restraints, and Foggy gives into temptation almost immediately, using the fingers of his other hand to lightly trace the hard muscles in Matt's neck. Though his touch is as soft as a whisper, the pads of his fingers catch a bit on the moisture of Matt's slick skin. The drag causes Matt to flinch and for a moment, he falters. 

Foggy leans forward in response to the sudden shift in mood. Matt remains immobile, frozen as if he can tell exactly what Foggy is doing—he probably can, Foggy thinks. The sound of shifting fabric is loud in silence of the room, the soft cotton of Matt's sleep pants rubbing against the rough denim of Foggy's jeans. Foggy reaches his destination and presses a kiss to the corner of Matt's mouth.

Foggy's lips are a brand, hot as iron held over a flame. Matt feels it deeply, like Foggy is claiming ownership of more than just his mouth, more than just this moment. Foggy's tongue flicks out briefly just afterward: tasting or teasing, Matt's unsure. He whimpers, overwhelmed.

It seems to prompt Foggy, and the palm planted just beneath Matt's breastbone drops an inch lower. It doesn't stop. It continues, tortuously slow down Matt's body. Foggy's fingers had been cool, cold in a way that sent a pleasurable jolt of chill wherever they had touched Matt's sensitive skin. Now, they've absorbed the warmth from Matt's overheated skin and his fingertips have become five steady points of pressure that arrest Matt's every sense, thought, and breath.

Foggy's hand reaches the waistband of Matt's pants and hovers over the knotted drawstring. Matt just able to smother the keen that tries to rise from his throat, wrestling for at least that much control, and it is only then that he realizes he's full-on panting. He can't even remember when his mouth had dropped open to do so, but his sense of embarrassment is distant and only heightens the tingling pleasure zinging across his skin. 

However, Matt does register the feeling. He is barely conscious of how open he is, but still—Matt's conquered, but not subdued. He's flayed open, but he's still alive. Foggy may hold all of Matt, every fragile sliver, in his hands... but that does not mean that Matt's surrender is going to be easy.

Foggy is marveling at the way Matt arches into his touch as he trails his hand down Matt's torso. The way Matt moves, whether smooth and sinuous or shivering in sensation, is always enthralling. This moment is no exception. Foggy is sure he and Matt could be in a room packed with other people and Foggy's entire focus would still be undeniably drawn in by Matt's slightest movement. 

Still, this isn't the time to be thinking of a hypothetical room full of hypothetical people. This isn't even the time to get distracted by the delicious display Matt's putting on in front of him or to consider frotting against the wonderful hardness pressing insistently into the underside of Foggy's thigh. Matt's mouth had abruptly dropped open as Foggy had caressed his skin, and the way Matt had begun panting had raised a fire under Foggy's skin and enticed a dark hunger deep within in him, the desire to possess Matt—willingly and completely in the way that only love can possess. 

However, only seconds later, Matt's lips swiftly draw together and a his brow furrows enough that Foggy can see it even through the blindfold.

Abruptly, Foggy knows two things. 

One, Matt needs Foggy to prove that he is worthy of the control Matt has relinquished to him, entrusted to him, and that Foggy can handle it. He has to show Matt that Foggy can handle him.

Two, that blindfold has got to go.

Foggy's hand descends further and his fingers began to play with the drawstring of Matt's pants. Matt gasps as Foggy takes hold of the strings, a breathless and choked sound, likely because he assumes Foggy will give Matt what he wants, now. Perhaps he assumes that Foggy will go that little bit further, pull the string and release the knot, slip his hand under Matt's waistband and take him in hand—take control—the way that Matt wants him, too. But Foggy doesn't. He stops there, idly toying with Matt's drawstring even as he ignores both of their erections—why? Because even though it's what Matt expects, it's what Matt wants and what Foggy would give Matt if they were following the script in Matt's head. They aren't following Matt's script, though; they're following Foggy's. 

Foggy can tell when Matt realizes Foggy has no intentions of going further because Matt's lips pull back in a snarl ten times more frightening than the one he had pulled on Foggy earlier. 

It's the snarl Foggy imagines criminals see just before Daredevil teaches them the law with flying knees and hard knuckles. It's the expression that tells Foggy he's dealing with the devil, now.

Matt's voice is sonorous and gravelly as he jerks forward against Foggy and begins pulling at the cloth tying his wrists again. The crack of his voice is like a peal of lightning striking a cliff face, and Foggy feels the jolt of electricity as Matt's bare chest collides with his own. 

"I won't beg." Matt spits, and if this is how Matt does intimidating, Foggy can see why it works on bad guys. But... Foggy is not intimidated. He's not afraid of Matt. He never could be, just as those bad guys could never belong to Matt the way that Foggy does... the way they belong to each other.

Foggy seizes the waistband of Matt's pants in an iron grip and slides his other hand through Matt's disheveled hair. His fingers tangle in the tie of the blindfold and he pulls it free in one swift, measured movement.

Foggy's voice is not as deep as Matt's, but it's steadier. If Matt's voice is gravel, then Foggy's is water, the undeniable tempest of waves that beat against a mountain and wear it away until gravel is all that remains.

"You will." Foggy states, clearly and irrefutably. He pulls his hand free from Matt's hair and instead pushes Matt down to the silken sheets beneath them.


End file.
